


Little Red Wagon

by Byrcca



Series: Rewritten Lost Fics [2]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: 25 Days of Voyager, Christmas Fluff, F/M, I traded days, T’was the night before Christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-06 18:03:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16837645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byrcca/pseuds/Byrcca
Summary: T’was the night before Christmas and Tom has one more task to complete before he can hit the sack and dream of sugarplums.





	Little Red Wagon

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a rewrite of a lost fic that I originally wrote likely back around 2004. I don’t think the original was ever posted, likely only shared with my Collective. If it sounds familiar to you, give me a shout.
> 
> Thanks to LA for the honesty and to Caseyptah for confirming what I’d already been told. :)

Based on a true story… 

The snow fell in big, soft, fluffy flakes dusting the sloping roof of a log cabin. It settled on the trees and scrubby winter grass, blanketing the lawn in a layer of sparkling white. Moonlight glinted silver on the snowdrifts and dark shadows painted the surrounding woods in stripes of blue and purple. If you looked closely at the front yard, you’d make out tracks made by winter boots, two large sets and one small, and a sprinkling of oats and seeds: a feast for the antlered friends who would accompany tonight’s special visitor. 

A ten foot tall white pine tree stood in front of the large front window. It was decorated with twinkling lights and garlands of popcorn and cranberries, and other garlands inexpertly made from strips of coloured paper and glue. Glass balls in all the colours of a class two nebula reflected the firelight. Presents wrapped in festive paper and tied with red cloth bows were snuggled safely under the tree’s lower branches and sprinkled with sharp, sticky pine needles which B’Elanna had stopped sweeping up on their second day in the cabin. _“You wanted a real tree, you deal with the mess.”_

A glass of room-warmed milk sat on the coffee table beside a plate containing two gaudily decorated sugar cookies: a snowman (whose smile looked more like a grimace), and a Christmas tree. The icing was soft, and the tiny, bright candies that accentuated the cut-out tree had begun to slide to the right. It looked like the tree might had been knocked over by an excited two-year-old. 

A fire crackled in the fireplace, and the room was bathed in an orange glow. Truthfully, it was a little too warm, but Tom was determined to enjoy all the trappings of a goode, olde fashionede Christmas: log cabin, wood fire and Sparkly Magic Christmas Snow included. 

It was this very determination that had him seated cross-legged and barefoot on the rug in front of the fire, stripped to a t-shirt (and still a bit too warm in his flannelette pajama pants and Santa hat). “Hammer, screwdriver, wrench, pliers… Where did I… Ah. Four tires, one handle, and one of whatever this is.” It looked like an upside down bicycle seat with a V-shaped rod stuck through it. 

“Why the hell are there nine nuts but only eight bolts?” he murmured. “And where’s the cotter pin?” He sighed and scooted to his left, raised a butt cheek and felt around on the rug. No cotter pin. 

“Want me to help you look?” B’Elanna grinned. 

He smiled but didn’t answer her. It may have been the scent of pine, or maybe the cold, clean woodsy air, but she’d been a little more _Klingon_ than usual since they’d arrived at the cabin. Miral had stopped napping over a month ago, alas, but the fact that she still woke at the crack of dawn (maybe combined with the scent of pine and the cold, clean air?) meant that she was tired earlier, and was sound asleep by nineteen hundred. Which left a whole lot of evening for just the two of them. Time which his wife was more than happy to spend getting cuddly. And naked. Unfortunately, Tom had a more immediate task he needed to complete before they could get naked again.

He lifted the sheet of paper which carefully outlined the step-by-step instructions complete with illustrations and a detailed list of the parts required (also illustrated) and spied the cotter pin, and something that looked like a teeny-tiny crown, on the coffee table. He scooped them up and dropped them beside the pile of screws, bolts, and nuts on the floor next to his knee.

He reached for the glass of milk and took a slurp, then set it back down on the coffee table.

“Okay, this bolt has the hole through it so it goes…” His paper crinkled. He frowned. “This is… Ah! The crown thing, and the little spikey thing.” He lined up the bits the way the illustration suggested and fit them together.

“Don’t forget the lubricant,” B’Elanna reminded him. She reached past him and plucked a sticky cookie from the plate and offered it to him. He took a bite (so much for Frosty’s head) and crunched happily. 

“Right.” Tom lifted a little can of oil he’d replicated earlier (to look like one from 1950’s Earth, of course). He placed his thumb on the bottom and held the spout between his index and middle fingers, then depressed the bottom. It made a _puka-puka_ sound. He turned to his wife and grinned. She shook her head with a smile, then bit a chunk out of Frosty’s belly. He handed her the milk and she grimaced but accepted the glass and took a little sip.

He glanced at the instruction sheet to make sure he was oiling the correct bits, then tilted the can upside down and depressed the bottom again. He couldn’t help grinning at the sound it made and shot B’Elanna a glance. She smiled and rolled her eyes, and got up to put the now empty glass back on the coffee table. He caught her hand (the one with the cookie in it) and raised it to his mouth and kissed it (her hand, not the cookie), then took another bite (of the cookie, not her hand). He watched her walk across the room toward the kitchen, then focused on his instruction sheet as he chewed and swallowed.

“ _Tighten until just snug_. Right. _Align slot in nut with hole in bolt and insert cotter pin_.” 

He peered at the sheet then lowered it to glance at the short tower of metal he’d just constructed, then looked at the sheet of paper again. “Okay.” He grabbed the cotter pin and inserted it through the hole in the bolt. 

“ _Bend cotter pin ends apart_.” 

He finagled one tip of the pliers between the legs of the cotter pin and gripped it, then twisted. He had to grunt (which always helped with manual labour) and eventually it bent. A cup of warm apple cider complete with cinnamon stick appeared on the coffee table and he glanced at B’Elanna with a smile of thanks. She bent down and nudged his Santa hat aside with her nose and kissed his forehead, snagged the remaining cookie, then settled in the chair next to his spot on the rug. She took a sip from her own mug and silently observed him from over the rim. 

He reached for the wagon bed and poked the bolts through the holes in the bottom, then flipped it upside down. The bolts promptly fell out of the holes and landed on the carpet with a quiet _thunk_. He heard a faint snort off to his left and turned his head to look at the love of his life. She raised an inquiring eyebrow, her expression all innocence. 

Tom propped the wagon bed against the coffee table and poked a bolt through one of the holes, then eased the undercarriage thingy he’d just built onto the bolt. It slipped and as he grabbed for it, the wagon bed knocked against the leg of the coffee table with a loud _clang!_ He winced and froze, and shot a look at B’Elanna. She was halfway out of her seat, paused, head cocked toward the cottage’s bedrooms, listening. Nothing. They both relaxed. 

Tom kept a finger on the bolt and braced the wagon with his elbow and one knee, and eased the hole in the plate of the undercarriage onto the bolt. He leaned his shoulder against it to hold it in place and patted the carpet at his side, but instead of feeling cold metal, his hand landed on something soft and fluffy. He glanced at his wife; she was smiling serenely at him, her fuzzy-slippered foot resting on top of the little pile of fasteners.

“What’ll you give me for it?” she asked. She poked his hip with the toe of her slipper.

Her voice was low and teasing, and Tom recognized the glint in her eyes and decided it had nothing to do with the light from the fire. “What d’ya want?” 

She slipped her foot out of the slipper and inched her toes along his thigh. “I want to unwrap my present early.”

Tom grinned. “Oh, I think that can be arranged,” he said. He tucked her foot into his lap, stuck the wrench in his mouth (risked another glance at his love, who raised an eyebrow), plucked the nut from the carpet, twirled it onto the bolt, grabbed the wrench from between his teeth and tightened the nut. 

The rest were easy. 

“ _Be sure that rear braces are assembled to the wagon before attaching the wheels and hubcaps to the axles_.” 

“Sound advice,” B’Elanna said.

The rear axle went on smooth as butter. The braces slightly less so but they weren’t much of a problem. He slid the wheels in place, then popped on the hubcaps and picked up the hammer. He glanced at B’Elanna, and she shook her head, motioning toward the hallway to the bedrooms. Maybe he would just push them on as tight as he could tonight, and hammer them in place tomorrow. 

He reached for the pull handle and the final long bolt and corresponding nut and referenced his instruction sheet one more time. “ _Do not assemble without safety ball_.” He shot a wicked grin at the woman who had stolen his heart many years ago. “Sounds ominous.”

She folded her hands in her lap. “I wouldn’t chance it,” she agreed. 

One more check of the diagram… He noted that the handle had a bend, and he carefully flipped it around so it curved upward, inserted the ball into the cradle in the yoke/undercarriage/thing and rested the handle on the rear axle. He poked the bolt through the carefully aligned holes, wiggled everything a bit to realign them, and shot the bolt home, then twirled the nut on the end, securing it with the wrench. 

He shot his lady fair a smug grin and got to his knees, then lifted the wagon and slowly twirled it, and set it down on its wheels. The handle was trapped underneath, so he tipped the wagon back and grabbed it, and flipped it out and up. It smacked on the yoke with a _clack!_ and remained trapped under the wagon. “What the…?” Tom frowned and stood the wagon on end. He groaned.

B’Elanna burst into a fit of giggles. “I’m sorry,” she snickered. She wrapped an arm around her belly and giggled again. 

“You watched me do this.”

She nodded, snorted, then gave in to a full-bellied laugh. She put a hand over her mouth in an attempt to stifle it. Tom tilted his head back and closed his eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “You were doing so well and I didn’t have the heart to tell you.” She leaned forward and tugged him into a kiss, but broke into a giggle mid-smooch. 

Tom gave in and laughed with her. He’d bolted the yoke to the wagon bed backwards, so when he’d attached the handle, it was pointing toward the rear wheels instead of to the front. He flipped the wagon back over and noted that the handle was upside down as well, with the bend pointing in the wrong direction, so instead of making it easier to pull the wagon he would have to stoop. “I suppose you think you can do better?” He barely choked out the words as he laughed.

“Maybe,” she conceded. “I am a trained engineer.”

He dithered; some things a father did for his child, and assembling a genuine (though slightly modified) 1917 Radio Flyer wagon was one of them. 

“It’s after midnight. She’ll be up in less than five hours.”

She was right. He scooted over on the carpet and handed her the wrench. She slid off the chair and onto her knees, then settled, a little awkwardly, cross-legged on the other side of the wagon. It took her less than a minute to disconnect the handle and flip it around so it was pointed in the proper direction. She removed the nuts and lifted up the yoke, twirled it, and replaced it, then poked three of the bolts through the holes to temporarily hold it in place. She poked the forth bolt up from underneath and secured it with a nut then, one by one, reversed and secured the remaining bolts. 

Tom sipped his cider and watched her work, and a warmth spread through him. She was luminous in the firelight with red and orange highlights in her hair, and her skin taking on a rosy glow from the heat of the fire. She had placed the nuts on her protruding belly. Round and full with their second child, it made a good shelf when she was sitting. The baby was due in a couple of months, and this would be their last Christmas as a trio: him, B’Elanna, and their daughter. Miral was excited to become a big sister, and though he and B’Elanna were equally excited to see their new baby (whose gender they had strictly prohibited the Doctor from disclosing to them), he had wanted this Christmas to be extra special, hence the cabin and the tree and the Radio Flyer wagon. B’Elanna had argued that Miral was too young to remember any of it but he would remember and that was what counted. 

She set down the wrench and glanced up at him, and caught him staring at her. “Done,” she said. 

Tom stood and flipped the wagon right-side up and placed it carefully onto its wheels. He grabbed the handle and flipped it backward; it folded neatly back over the wagon bed. He arced it forward and gave the wagon an experimental pull. It rolled. He pulled to the left and it turned. He pulled the wagon all the way around the coffee table, and glanced over at B’Elanna and grinned. She smiled back. He rolled the wagon to a spot beside the Christmas tree, folded the handle back, then turned and reached for B’Elanna’s hands and helped her up to her feet. He was sliding his palm around her hip when she raised a hand and patted his chest, then stepped back. 

“Just a minute,” she said. 

She went down the hallway and was back almost immediately with a large red bow, which she tied to the handle. While she was gone, Tom had inserted tall wooden sides into slots on the outer edge of the wagon’s rim. 

“There, it’s perfect,” she said.

“Almost. Close your eyes.” Tom reached under a sofa cushion and pulled out a strap of white, woven fabric with a buckle in the centre, and two more bolts and nuts. He placed them in her hands. She opened her eyes and smiled.

“A safety harness!” 

“Since you insisted.”

They had argued over the wagon (No brakes! No steering mechanism? Nothing to secure her in place? What if she crashes?) They’d compromised with the high wooden sides and a detachable shade hood that would do double duty as a roll bar. Tom had even preempted her snowy mountain trails/wheeled wagon argument by replicating skis that would attach to the wheels. He was looking forward to hitting the hiking trail tomorrow morning after breakfast. 

“Oh! Don’t forget the helmet,” B’Elanna said. 

Tom fished behind the tree and came up with a miniature version of his Captain Proton leather helmet and goggles, reinforced, to protect her brain in case she did, indeed, crash the wagon. _When_ she crashed; there was little doubt she would, it was just a matter of time. He placed them in the bed of the wagon. 

“Don’t you want to wrap them?” She lifted an eyebrow. 

Tom shook his head. “Let’s just leave them in the ‘Flyer.”

B’Elanna smiled and moved closer to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and leaning forward to kiss his jaw. Her belly pushed against his diaphragm and he expelled a breath with an _ugh_. He grinned and pulled her closer, loving her new softness, the new roundness to her hips and backside. He angled his head to kiss her; she tasted of apple and cinnamon from the cider. He kissed her again, lingering to trail tiny kisses up her to cheekbone and temple. 

“Thanks for fixing the wagon,” he murmured against her hair. 

“You’re welcome.” She placed his hand on her breast and scraped her teeth over the golden stubble on his chin, nibbled her way along his jaw to his ear. “Come to bed and I’ll fix _your_ little red wagon, _Proton_ …”

He could only grin as he took her hand in his and followed her down the hallway.

~~~~~~~~~

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the instructions for the Model 93B: Radio Flyer Classic Red Ranger Wagon, ages 18 months and up, found at the Radio Flyer website.
> 
> Also, yes, I realize that back in 1917 it was the Liberty Coaster Company not Radio Flyer, and if Tom and B’Elanna had been in the Maquis when this fic is set, Miral having her own ‘Liberty’ would have worked just as well, though I suspect Uncle Chakotay would have given it to her.


End file.
